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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28027398">put your dagger down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties'>sadsparties</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Goodsir Recommends Springcleaning, Jopson Does A Solid, M/M, Paternal Instinct, Post-Canon, Recovery, Tenderness, hand kissing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:53:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28027398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>1850. Francis Crozier has a memoir to write, but first he must lay something to rest.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier &amp; Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>put your dagger down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>see end notes for more warnings/spoilers</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is Uncle Francis coming with us?”</p><p>The innocent question was posed with all the gravity of a court martial, addressed between the nibbling of an egg tart and the gulping of lemon tea, that Sir James Clark Ross was promptly plucked from the pleasant stupor that he had been in the process of surrendering to. The boy on his lap looked at him expectantly.</p><p>“Your uncle has set his mind to staying in London, dear one,” Ross said as he stole a glance across the table towards Francis. “Quite set, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Blackheath was a scorching place, and it was no wonder that the Ross household preferred to retire to Buckinghamshire before the summer reached its peak and the master of the house lost his wits entire. No questions were raised if Sir Francis would join them — in truth, the only queries made were as to why he had declined.</p><p>“But we like him,” Little Jamie said, pouting endearingly. Francis gave assurances that he would write to him often, but Jamie only scowled until his face was a semblance of a wrinkled cabbage. He then turned on his father’s lap, swinging his feet wildly from side to side until Ross had sworn under penalty of pocket frogs to help the boy write his letters.  </p><p>“The offer still stands, old man,” said Ross as they descended the stairs. He had let Francis take the side nearer the balustrade, and Francis was grateful for it. </p><p>It had unnerved him, the first time he had climbed a stairway after his return. Years of cramped hatches, tilted floors, and sharp rocks under his boots had estranged his feet from the feel of even ground, let alone perfectly spaced stairs.</p><p>“I’m sorry, James,” Francis said with a strained smile. “I’ll be happy to join you for dinner the night before you leave, so make sure Jamie keeps awake.”</p><p>“Won’t you join us for breakfast, too? To see us off?”</p><p>Francis declined yet again, citing an early meeting with Goodsir, and at the mention of Francis’s old crew, Ross leaned forward eagerly.</p><p>“It’s come to my hearing that Old Barrow gave you until the end of the year for your memoir. Is that why you’ve been conferring with the surgeon? For your manuscript?”</p><p>Francis tilted his head, cool and stoic. “A bit.”</p><p>Ross did not probe further, and what vigour he exuded quickly dissipated at Francis’s reservation. The shadows of the window panes danced across their faces at the late hour, the figures stretching longer as the sun disappeared behind neighbor’s roofs. It was a growing thing, this distance between them—neither party blameless but neither aware of what to do in order to mend it.</p><p>Francis relayed the situation to James, these matters being his domain. </p><p>“Wasn’t it the same when Sir James returned from the Arctic in ‘33?” James recounted as he folded the linens. “He’d gone through hell and survived, and when first you met again, he was bridled with four years’ worth of unpleasantness which he knew not how to share with you. What did you do then?”</p><p>“I waited,” Francis supplied. With Ross, it had always been about timing.</p><p>“And now that you find yourselves in the reverse, it will be his turn to do the waiting. You needn’t worry, Francis. Give it patience and you will settle into firm friendship once more.”</p><p>Francis did not share James’s confidence, but he mumbled a half-hearted “I suppose you’re right” as he stored the linens in the cupboard. With a heavy sigh, he blew out one of the tapers and readied for bed.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>There were very few whom Francis could possibly confide in with regards to his circumstances, being disinclined to advertise his condition in the weeklies, or scour the classifieds for individuals who had almost died in the Arctic and might be able to sympathise.</p><p>There was always Ross, of course. And Thomas. And anyone of the precious few whom he had managed to drag back from the shale. But the thought of revealing himself and hoisting his burden on their shoulders, when they themselves were far from recovered, had stayed Francis’s hand from dipping his pen in an inkwell.</p><p>Somehow, this reasoning did not apply to Goodsir.</p><p>“What of the nightmares, Captain? Do you still suffer from them?”</p><p>“I do, though less often now. It’s the sleeplessness that concerns me.”</p><p>Goodsir made a quick nod that disturbed the lone curl situated on his forehead. “Are there any other symptoms? Besides the restlessness, I mean.”</p><p>“None that I’ve noticed.”</p><p>Goodsir nodded once more and moved to his cluttered writing desk, where he made the very picture of a proper doctor. Francis thought that Goodsir would achieve success should he so pursue medicine again—but it required the dear man’s absolving himself of wrongs committed beyond his control. </p><p>“A bottle of bromides then,” Goodsir prescribed. “A teaspoon with cold water each day.” </p><p>Francis thanked him as he tucked the paper into his waistcoat. It was then that he noticed the silver wisps in Goodsir’s hair. “Forgive me, Mr. Goodsir. I’ve yet to ask how you’ve been.”</p><p>Goodsir, as it happened, was in search of new lodgings. His brother had accepted his offer of co-curatorship for a museum in Bromley, and having no wish to be parted from each other whilst they were in the same city, his brother had put it forward that they take rooms together.</p><p>“I am writing, as well,” Goodsir added, “though it will be nothing like your memoir, Captain. More of a record of the zoology and botany of the northern regions.”</p><p>Francis did not think it prudent to confess that he had written nary a word for the blasted memoir. He had certainly attempted, but the words strayed far from him even if he devoted himself to the task. </p><p>He also did not blame Goodsir for steering clear of matters that did not involve his sciences. The man had experienced a profound loss, had been ripped away from the brink of something, and Francis understood it keenly.</p><p>“Oh, and Captain?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>Goodsir chuckled, amused at their mutual morbing. “I would recommend getting rid of some of your possessions as well.” </p><p>At Francis’s silent query, he added: “We disposed of some of our museum’s collections recently. Nothing really of note, just furnishings from older families. I suppose it gave me the idea to divest myself of objects that were no longer useful to me.”</p><p>Goodsir was smiling at him, as welcoming as ever, but the look in his eyes somehow made Francis’s throat tighten.</p><p>“I spent an entire day dithering in front of the rubbish,” he shared. “Some of those things were extremely valuable to me, but I parted with it still, and felt lighter for it.” </p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>By the end of the week, Francis had stowed a trunk’s worth of superfluous possessions, the volume of which both pleased him, seeing as he now had the means to do so, and appalled him, as it established that roving sailor he was no longer. In an old storage box, he had discovered three chess sets with missing pieces; several nightshirts beyond repair; and an album of news clippings on the Victory expedition that Francis had half a mind to send to Goodsir.</p><p>“Are you certain you shouldn’t send it to Buckinghamshire instead?” James teased.</p><p>At some point, Jopson’s assistance was enlisted, and his polished efficiency quickly added another trunk to the growing collection. Jopson had just fastened the straps of the second trunk when a break was suggested, where they then retreated to the kitchen and Francis inquired about Jopson’s studies.</p><p>“Very well, sir,” Jopson said from the lone chair on the table. “Commander Little assured me that if I continued with my pace, I am certain to cover everything that the exams require.”</p><p>James placed himself near the open window, the smoke from his pipe wafting into the kitchen as he said, “I don’t know why you worry, Francis. Our Jopson here will excel in anything he puts his mind to.” </p><p>This earned a short laugh from Francis, then a raised brow from Jopson.</p><p>“Our efforts today may be to your advantage then,” Francis said. “Yesterday, I found the references that I used in obtaining my mate’s certificate, and I would rather they ended up on your shelf than in the bin.”</p><p>Jopson lit up at that, and Francis realized guiltily that throughout Jopson’s years of loyal service, this was the first time that Francis had ever presented him with something akin to a gift. Francis resolved to visit the watch shops at the nearest opportunity.</p><p>“I’m very grateful, sir,” said Jopson. He took a sip of his tea and smiled in approval as only a steward would. </p><p>Francis grinned as he refilled his tobacco. If he closed his eyes, he and Jopson might as well be in Terror’s Great Cabin. He had treasured Jopson’s company in those years—free of expectation and judgment, though he was hardly deserving of it—and when the crew was paid off, Francis had assumed that he would thereafter be bereft of the young man’s fellowship. </p><p>How glad he was to be wrong.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>Jopson departed shortly before afternoon tea, and Francis was left to simmer at his desk that he might spew out the rough outline of a memoir. He had harboured no ambitions of publishing one, knowing how difficult it had been for Ross, were it not for a near-spat in Barrow’s office an hour before the court martial.</p><p>“Consider this your penance,” the old swellhead sneered from his armchair, “and in return I will have the Board honour your poor charade of a field promotion.”</p><p>Francis riled inwardly at the confounding exercise. He did not understand the Admiralty’s insistence that he pen the manuscript, when such self-aggrandizing acts were well-known to be outside his repertoire. </p><p>Francis turned his attention to the mantel above the fireplace, where a row of botched scientific instruments and a battered chronometer box remained. Perhaps he should not have been surprised at Barrow’s command, for who best to memorialise a tragedy than a man reputed for keeping things well beyond reason—grudges and false hopes, in particular? </p><p>Resolving the day’s attempts concluded, Francis eased the tension in his posture until he felt warm hands on his shoulders, pressing away the ache of an afternoon of slouching. He smiled and let his head lean backward unto a firm stomach.</p><p>“And why should holding on be frowned upon, hm?” James’s words rumbled against the back of Francis’s head. “We barely survived, Francis. Shouldn’t we be allowed to grasp whatever is left to us?”</p><p>Francis let out a quiet breath. “You’re one to talk, James. You can’t even remember how we first kissed.”</p><p>Francis knew that if he put his mind to it, he could recall it vividly: James, gin-soaked a week before they walked out; and Francis, mad with longing. They had kissed recklessly against the bulkhead of Francis’s berth. James had moaned obscenely as Francis ran fingers through his hair, had hitched his breath at the feeling of Francis’s teeth nipping at the skin beneath his ear. In the end, James passed out and had to be assisted into an empty cabin, where he woke with a headache and no inkling of what had passed.</p><p>“Well,” James said airily as he ran his fingers from nape to crown. “Do you want my comfort or not?”  </p><p>“Yes,” Francis admitted, his heart aching. “Yes, please<em>.”  </em></p><p>In the morning, Francis poured out the bottle of bromides in the sink.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>Time passed, the summer reached its height, and the mantelpiece piled high with missives. Apart from writing his replies, the pages on Francis’s writing desk remained persistently blank. The words for the memoir did not come, and Francis knew enough of himself to not force the matter.</p><p>Ross wrote every week, as did the rest of his household. Little Jamie sent a charming illustration of a swan, the animal depicted as overtly round with a suspiciously overlong neck. Meanwhile, Ross recounted his discovery of a mountain of rotting specimens in the outhouse.</p><p>“My mind was elsewhere at the time and thus I could not have begun to attempt analysing these samples,” he wrote. “It is of no consequence now, but I do think that had you not gone to Florence and thence to the Arctic, I would have managed it, for such do I hold your opinion in high regard. I do not blame you, of course, but nor can I deny the significant effects of communing with another who understands my own sensibilities. My dear Anne has put forward that should you decide to grace us with your.…” </p><p>The other letters turned out to be calls for subscriptions and invitations to tea. Francis returned these to the pile where they were likely to remain forgotten. He paused to inspect a particular envelope, having recognised the tight cursive spelling out his name. </p><p>“Captain Crozier,” it read. “Inserted herein is a ticket to my brother and I’s first collaboration. I cannot assume that you would have a clandestine enthusiasm for mollusks, but it would be a great honour to have your presence all the same. Yours sincerely, Henry D. S. Goodsir.” </p><p>“Well,” James said when Francis showed him the ticket. “You are aware of my fondness for jellyfish, yes?” </p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>The Bromley Museum in Orpington resembled a residence more than a public property—boasting two chimneys, a sprawling lawn, and pockets of shrubbery akin to The Abbey’s in Aston Abbotts. It had drizzled merely an hour ago, and the path to the entrance was still wet with morning dew.</p><p>The Goodsirs’s exhibit was in a newly remodeled room, not larger than half of Terror’s fo’c’sle, and thankfully made less ominous by its sizeable windows. The space was packed with cabinetry, each with levels upon levels of pull-out drawers that opened halfway to display a miscellanea of seashells. </p><p>Francis inspected a drawer labeled “A Collection Of Organisms Taken From The Arctic Regions.” A row of seashells were artfully placed on a bed of dark sand, and though Francis had expected it to exude the distinction bestowed by its label, the shells were not dissimilar to the finds in any coast: gastropods, tusk-like corrals, starfish. </p><p>“Oh, look. That’s pretty.” </p><p>James pointed to half of a black clam that reflected several colours in the light. On the surface, there was nothing remarkable about it, but it made Francis’s heart leap in his chest.</p><p>Strange what the mind attaches itself to at certain moments. There had been the cairn and there had been the walk back to camp, and then there had been James on the verge of tears as the fog thickened around them. Giving comfort was still strange to Francis then. He had taken James’s hands and pressed the pads of those dear fingers to his lips—what captainly powers he had rendered useless—and murmured sweet words as he issued half-formed kisses to James’s skin, like a benediction.</p><p>In that moment, Francis had happened to look down and find a single shell on the ground, dark against the white landscape.</p><p>“Francis?” He felt James’s hand cradling his cheek. “What is it?”</p><p>“Don’t you recall, James?” he asked, and at James’s empty stare, he laughed mirthlessly. “Of course not,” Francis swallowed against the lump in his throat, “how could you?”</p><p>“Captain Crozier.”</p><p>Francis whirled round and found Goodsir stood at the entrance. Beside him was another man, with deep-set eyes and a perplexed expression that made Francis nervous.</p><p>“Harry has told me so much about you, Sir Francis,” said Robert Goodsir as he shook Francis’s hand. Robert was quick to add that he was younger than Harry by merely four years, and with his fresh face and bright eyes, Francis need not be convinced. Robert Goodsir looked more like the Goodsir that Francis had met when the expedition began.</p><p>The brothers proceeded to conduct a tour of the meagre exhibit. They directed Francis’s attention to other seashells, to framed displays of Goodsir’s own sketches, and to a fossilized ammonite mollusk that sent James into ecstasies. Francis asked how the specimen was acquired.</p><p>“It is only here on loan, I’m afraid,” Goodsir said. “We’ve had to borrow a few items from other museums, but Bobby and I are determined to grow a substantial collection in a few years’ time.” </p><p>At the end of the tour, Goodsir handed Francis a pamphlet on crustaceans — “A preview of our next exhibit” — before moving on to a group of students who had just arrived.</p><p>“I’m glad for him,” James remarked on Goodsir’s retreating form. “He looks better than when last we saw him.”</p><p>“Does he?” Francis recalled how stiffly Goodsir had held himself. “He seems a bit disquieted.”</p><p>“He does, yes, but if you recall how he was after Lady Silence left us…” James leveled Francis with a solemn gaze. “That is a loss one cannot recover from easily, if at all.” </p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>The season progressed, the sun abated, and what were once green sycamore trees slowly transformed into sprawling golden pavilions. London, however, grew in gloom as the smog thickened, a consideration that Ross must have taken when he wrote that the family was to stay a few more weeks in Aston Abbotts after all.</p><p>Despite his reclusiveness, Francis found himself missing the ginger brood. He had relished being the family codger, and had realised very soon after the Rosses’ departure that it was a position he did not mind assuming for an indefinite period. He missed the simple joy that the children brought, the lightness that Anne exuded, and even the pained company he now had with Ross. </p><p>It was a shock, then, to find his friend at the third floor of the Royal Society’s offices. </p><p>“James?” Francis halted mid-step at the entrance to the main library. “What on earth are you doing here?”</p><p>Ross looked as if he had just alighted the coach from Buckinghamshire. His riding coat was folded in his arms, and his jaw had the beginnings of a fine display of red dust.</p><p>“Frank,” Ross greeted—it did not escape Francis’s notice that he was standing at attention—“might we speak?”</p><p>At that, Francis swiftly abandoned the thought of a pleasant afternoon reading published journals. He ushered Ross into the door opposite, which happened to be an empty smoking room, and sat on a lounge chair. </p><p>Ross followed suit, but instead of sitting, he made a disconcertingly thorough study of every inch of Francis’s face. The uneasiness grew between them until Ross gathered himself and cleared his throat.</p><p>“I have come to ask you to stay with us.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t understand why you choose to live in that decrepit flat of yours, Frank, when we have ample room in any of our residences. The children adore you and they missed you the entire summer.”</p><p>“James...” Francis was utterly confused. Was this why Ross had cut his holiday short? And in such a tone...</p><p>“It can’t be good for you, living alone.”</p><p>“I am perfectly—”</p><p>“And you have not been the same.” Ross set his coat aside and began to pace. “I have corresponded with most of our common friends. I would not have you wanting for company while we were gone, so I encouraged them to reach out to you. They tell me that you have declined their invitations, citing excuses flimsier than the last.”</p><p>Francis bristled in his seat. He did not appreciate Ross’s berating him like a schoolmarm. “You know very well that I don’t enjoy functions of the sort.”</p><p>“And when did that ever turn you into a recluse? You were always accommodating, Frank, despite your disdain for chin-wagging. And we know you don’t do well with your own thoughts. You need people around you. Real people.”</p><p>“Enough!”</p><p>He had not intended it to come out so strongly. The room rang with Francis’s outburst and he gnashed his teeth in ire. His next words settled somewhere between a whisper and a growl.</p><p>“Why don’t you tell me why the hell you’re really here?” </p><p>Ross pursed his lips and took in a harsh breath that flared his nostrils. He had always been quick to answer an affront, but Francis’s anger only seemed to defuse what he might have said in frustration. Ross bowed his head and closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he leveled Francis with a look that conveyed, of all things, sympathy.</p><p>“I wrote to Mr. Goodsir,” was his simple answer. </p><p>Francis’s blood ran cold. No—Harry couldn’t betray him that way. He didn’t know enough.</p><p>“It was not the proper thing to do, but believe me when I say that I did it out of concern for you, Frank. Your Goodsir is more honourable than I and did not expound on your meetings despite my asking, but he did mention your visit to his museum.”</p><p>The whole room seemed to slowly squeeze into itself. Francis’s ears filled with a ringing that threatened to drown out all sound.</p><p>“He thought that I had accompanied you at first, but then he looked around and realised that you were utterly alone. You were looking at the displays, quite ordinarily, and then you touched your face and said—”</p><p>Francis caught sight of his own hands; they were shaking.</p><p>“—‘Don’t you recall, James?’”</p><p>From thereon after, it was a series of images and sensations: an upended table, Ross flinching, a sharp pain in his knee, the soft give of the carpet under his shoes as he fled.</p><p>Francis sped through the halls of the Royal Society, to what direction he knew not, only that he had to escape. His chest burned from his heaving, and Francis truly believed that if he returned to that room, he would surely die. He would die just as he should have done, with—</p><p>“Frank!” came a voice behind him. Francis limped as he turned a corner.</p><p>“Francis!” came another, and on hearing it Francis sobbed with relief.</p><p>James stood at the end of the corridor, his arms outstretched.</p><p>“Francis.”</p><p>James waved from the second floor landing, his smile radiant.</p><p>“Come here, Francis.”</p><p>Francis descended the stairs in a state of frenzied euphoria. James was here. Everything would be put to right.</p><p>“Frank!”</p><p>His foot caught on a step, and as Francis hurtled downward, eyes closed and hopes high, he could almost feel James catching him.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>There was barely any noise now that everyone had settled for midday rest, and the sound of Little’s frantic cries pierced through the camp like an arrow aiming true. Francis left the sick tent and ran outside with the worst of assumptions.</p><p>“Rescue!” came the ringing shout. Heads appeared from beneath tent flaps, summoned like orphans who had heard the bell for dinner.</p><p>“Rescue! It’s Ross. They’ve a doctor. They—”</p><p>He heard not the rest as his knees gave out. Soon there were more shouts, cheering and chanting from dry throats watered by fresh hope. The louder it sounded, the deeper Francis seemed to sink into the shale. </p><p>A hand pressed gently on his shoulder, and Francis accepted the help to stand.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Mr. Bridgens,” he croaked. “I left you with the women’s work.” </p><p>Bridgens pursed his lips and shook his head. “It’s no matter, sir. I cleaned him up best I could.”</p><p>Around them, the men began singing.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>The dream came to him so often that Francis had developed a habit of staying in bed in the mornings, reciting Bridgens’s insistent reminder of “No, sir, you couldn’t have known”, until the oppressive weight on his chest faded into a light constriction and Francis could properly breathe again.</p><p>But he was not in his bed, and neither was he alone.</p><p>“Rode like the wind, I did,” someone said at his bedside. Francis turned his head until he had a good view of Blanky fiddling a light for his pipe. “First time on one of those trains and I nearly retched from the jostling.”</p><p>“Thomas? What...”</p><p>“Sir James paid of course. Dropped me a line telling me to ‘come at once’. He seemed to think that all this was beyond him.”</p><p>Blanky gestured to Francis’s stationary form on the bed, and at the dull ache at Francis’s temple, he began to remember: Ross, the argument, the stairs…   </p><p>“Sir James offered to pick up the room and board as well, but I told him what if he was willing to spare me a bed in his fancy townhouse, I’d be happy to—”</p><p>“Can’t you let it alone?” Francis said under his breath. His voice was hoarse from more than just sleep; he sounded shrill, afraid. Francis pulled the blankets higher and attempted to curb his tears. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m not harming anyone.” </p><p>Unlike the rest of them, grief had come to Francis well after they were rescued. He had not succumbed to it while in the Enterprise, or in the Orkneys, or even in Greenhithe. It lingered in the edges of his vision, always there but never nearing, until he found a quiet one-bedder in Croydon to languish in peace. And then it had devoured him, harsh and whole.</p><p>“You’re too generous,” Sophia once chided. “You should leave something for yourself.”</p><p>In those early days, Francis wondered if he would mourn James so thoroughly had he reserved a part of his heart for himself. But he never was a man for half-baked attempts. Francis had loved too well, too much, and all too late. And thus he sank into a deep, black pit, smothered by his own grief until he too wished for someone to help him out of it.</p><p>When James first appeared, that grief did not vanish—merely changed shape.</p><p>“I’m not harming anyone,” he repeated, to which Blanky countered, “Aye, excepting yourself.”</p><p>The silence stretched between them.</p><p>“Is he here now?”</p><p>Francis hesitated. To answer was to let go from a cliff’s edge.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What is he exactly?”</p><p>“I dont know.”</p><p>There were times when Francis doubted that it had happened at all. He had left England and loved a man, and at his return, that man was no longer. Did something that ended before it properly began truly exist, or was it merely a wild cry in the wind, unseen and entirely imagined?</p><p>And so, Francis began to fill the gaps. He closed his eyes and kissed James in his cabin. He kissed James in the fog. On bad days, he kissed James at Terror’s stern before God and men. </p><p>With the illusion exposed, Francis felt his every bone wrung out, as if preserving the fantasy had rendered his body exhausted, diminished. He sank his head deeper into the pillow. </p><p>“When I met my Esther, she was still mooning over her first husband. Do you remember?”</p><p>He did. Thomas had returned from the Victory expedition and was keen to settle down. </p><p>“Bloke last sailed from Malta and never returned. Esther never figured what happened to the ship, but she spent a long time holding out hope. She was a lovely thing and I was raked fore and aft for her, but damned if I would compete with a dead man. Do you know what I did then?”</p><p>Francis did not rise to the bait.</p><p>“Nothing. I expected nothing and demanded nothing; I was just there for her. And then came the day when she glanced at me and it was as if a shroud lifted from her face. Next thing I knew, she was asking me to marry her.</p><p>“I wouldn’t mind doing it again, Francis. Waiting for you, I mean, not marrying you—hell, Esther would kill both of us—and I’m not the only one in this house who’s willing.”   </p><p>Francis let out a laugh, wet and raspy. “Some people would send for the madhouse,” he said. His eyes brimmed with tears as they met Blanky’s, but for once it was tears of gratitude. </p><p>“You won’t be blamed for it. And it can’t be the most unusual thing a man in mourning has done. But it’s like the drink, Francis.” </p><p>Blanky reached out and put a hand just inches short of Francis’s arm. His presence felt warm, real. “You’ll have all the help you want, but you need to get out of it yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>The doctor was a cheerful chap who knew not the intricacies of reading the tension in the air and pronounced Francis free of any injuries apart from the small cut at his temple.</p><p>“There was a lot of blood,” Ross supplied gravely. This elicited a chuckle from the doctor.</p><p>“Such is the nature of head wounds, Sir James. You needn’t worry, I assure you, although Sir Francis is indeed very fortunate to have avoided breaking any bones from the incident.” He turned to Francis on the bed and flashed a disconcerting smile. “Providence has its eye on you, sir, or perhaps a very diligent angel!”</p><p>The quip failed to land but the doctor paid it no heed. “Are there any other discomforts that I might help relieve? I can prescribe bromides, should you need any soothing.”</p><p>Francis could not have declined faster. The doctor then bid his farewells and Ross was left dawdling.</p><p>“I, ah, told Anne that they should stay in Buckinghamshire for the rest of the season—have them enjoy the country air longer.” </p><p>“Oh?” Francis had not expected this. “You’re not going back?”</p><p>Ross blanched, seemingly both horrified and affronted at the insinuation. “No, Frank. How can I possibly leave you?” </p><p>Years ago, Ross had unknowingly chosen between his family and Francis. He had not viewed it as the ultimatum it was, but it had affected the course of Francis’s life all the same. Now, in that large room with the heavy curtains, Francis realised that Ross had made a decision once again, and that perhaps he had more in his corner than he knew.</p><p>“Frank, I—” </p><p>Whatever Ross meant to say was interrupted by footsteps from above. Blanky’s pegleg thudded heavily on the floorboards, and from the clattering of a wash basin followed by his cussing, he seemed to be in need of assistance.</p><p>Ross cleared his throat and straightened. “Right, I’ll see to that then,” he decided. He then fled as if afraid of what else might be said.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your exams?”</p><p>Jopson paused from running a comb through Francis’s hair. “Good evening to you too, sir, and the exams are long over.”</p><p>Francis wiped the dust from his eyes and noticed the blue waistcoat that Jopson was wearing. It matched the jacket draped over the back of his chair, and on the jacket’s shoulders were two gold epaulettes, polished to a shine. </p><p>“I visited your apartment to tell you the news, sir, but... well.” Jopson shrugged, the motion displacing a forelock that he quickly brushed back in place. Francis wondered if Jopson had received a note saying ‘come at once’ as well, but knowing the lad’s perceptiveness, there had probably been no need.</p><p>“Well then,” Francis’s voice shook with pride, “congratulations, my boy.”</p><p>Had there been a way to blush and beam while still looking frightfully capable, then Jopson had just done so. Francis asked, “Have you a posting already?”</p><p>“Not officially, sir, but the H.M.S. Darling was mentioned as a possibility.” </p><p>If Francis remembered his listings correctly, the Darling was currently patrolling the Portuguese territorial lines. The ship and its captain were fairly unremarkable, and any fresh officer assigned to it was likely to waste away forgotten. </p><p>“I’ll put in a word for you,” Francis vowed. Surely, Barrow would accede to his requests whilst the memoir remained unpublished. “We’ll make sure you obtain a position in a larger vessel, or perhaps in a support ship to the Crimea if you’re up to it.”</p><p>Jopson thanked him profusely, and in their discussion of what other things might be done, the conversation drifted to the day of the exams. “Commanders Little and Hodgson were there to wish me luck,” Jopson said. </p><p>Francis could easily picture the three of them: Terror’s former lieutenants, tucked in one of the booths in Somerset House as they eagerly planned the promising years ahead. Mayhaps there was even a fourth who joined them, lost in his Bible.</p><p>James had not been given time. Francis himself had snuffed out that line of hope, and it took weeks of Bridgens’s unrelenting reassurance to convince Francis that he had not done so prematurely. </p><p>James had not been given time, but Jopson had, and Little and Hodgson and Peglar and Chambers and Hartnell. Francis was so mired in his grief that he had overlooked these precious gifts, these treasured keepsakes who had begun to flourish and thrive as they were due. He owed it to them to witness their success, to turn his sights forward and look to the future.</p><p>“He would be proud of you all, I think.”</p><p>Francis did not say more. A single tear escaped his eye, and Jopson wiped it away without remark.</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>His apartment remained miraculously undisturbed in his two week’s absence, prompting Francis to whisper a quick word of thanks to Jopson as he closed the door. It was barely dawn, but Francis could see that everything had been left in its proper place, including the old chronometer box hidden behind a pile of letters.</p><p>If another person had seen Francis approach the mantel, they would have thought that he was walking to his own execution. He had not opened the box since they were 600 miles from rescue, and when Ross suggested that they deposit their things with a view to return at a later date, Francis had refused to part with it. Instead he had kept it at the bottom of his sea chest, then under his bunk in the Enterprise, then in the unused drawer in his dresser.</p><p>Francis swept aside the pile of letters and braced himself. He released a shaky breath, and opened the lid. Inside was a single, grey glove, weathered from use, with the ends of the finger slots ridden with holes. The lining in the cuffs had already frayed, and to anyone’s assessment, the glove had far outlived its use. </p><p>This was all that Francis had of him. He had no photograph, nor letter, only a memento that had come into Francis’s possession by the practicality of the moment. </p><p>Here lay the proof of James Fitzjames’s existence. He was, and had been, on this earth. He was real. </p><p>Francis tenderly lifted the glove and traced his fingers on the ups and downs of the ribbing. He had never brought himself to wash it, and its surface remained caked with salt and dirt and the white powder that had covered their faces in the end. Francis gently tugged it over his right hand and pressed it to his cheek.</p><p>The old glove was rough to the touch, the cold wool unfeeling, and as Francis shifted his head to plant a kiss to his own palm, he felt it envelope him like a beloved blanket: a warmth at his back, arms wrapping around his middle, a sharp nose pressing behind his ear. </p><p>Francis found himself gasping at the rush of emotions. It poured forth out of him like a broken dam—anguish and relief and yearning all at once. And love, so much love. </p><p>“I love you,” Francis cried. He realised that he had never actually said it aloud. “I love you, James, and I didn’t tell you.”</p><p>Morning light filled the room, and the rustling of trees filtered from the half-open window. Francis listened closely, and that was when he heard it:</p><p>“I knew.”</p><p> </p><p>⚔️</p><p> </p><p>Ross found him later in the study, and from the surprised expression on his face, he had not expected Francis to return.</p><p>“Anne replied,” he said. “She tells me that the children have had quite enough of the country and are raring to return. They’ll likely arrive here tomorrow morning.”</p><p>Francis looked up from the writing desk and said, “I see. That’s good.” to which Ross nodded, lingered, then realised how foolish he must have looked, dithering in his own house.</p><p>“Frank—”  </p><p>“James dear.”</p><p>Ross blinked. His mouth knew not if it should open or close and Francis had to smile. “Thank you,” Francis said. “Thank you, my old friend.”</p><p>Of the two of them, it had always been Francis who took the first step. He rose to his full height and drew Ross into his arms, holding him as tightly as he had wished to all those years ago when Francis had feared his dearest friend lost forever in H.M.S. Victory.</p><p>“Frank. Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry,” Ross was saying against his shoulder.</p><p>“It’s all right, James. You worried for me.”</p><p>“No, not that, though I am sorry for what I did. I—” Ross drew away and placed his hands on Francis’s shoulders. “I am sorry, for your loss.”</p><p>A kind of astonishment settled over Francis. It was the kind of wonder that resulted from thoughtlessly passing through a ship corridor over many years, then one day discovering a discreet supply closet hidden in the corner.</p><p>Francis’s laughter came out raspy. He felt joyous and light. “Yes,” he claimed. “Yes, he was mine, wasn’t he? No one’s ever put it that way before.”</p><p>It was Ross's turn to pull him into an embrace. They held each other until the trembling eased from Francis's body, and when they had gathered themselves, Francis cleared his throat. “I think I’d always known that you would figure it out,” he said. “None know me as well as you do, and I thought that if I distanced myself…”</p><p>“Hush. It’s no matter now, hmm? You need not explain yourself.”</p><p>The solemnity of the moment was broken by the growling of Francis’s stomach, and Ross, mortified at shirking his responsibilities as a host, offered to ring for tea. “You’ve not had anything today, yes? I’ll have them bring something up.” He glanced at the desk ridden with papers and smiled. “It seems you'll be occupied for much longer.”</p><p>Francis laughed sheepishly and waved him off. When he was left alone once more, he turned his attention to the open window, where a gaggle of children were chasing each other in the street. There he saw James again, no longer in his imagination, but in the carefree smiles of the mothers who ran after their brood. </p><p>James was everywhere—in the low thrum of the crowd at the market, in the proud way that a pigeon held itself, in the soft warmth of a taper at night. Francis needed only to look and James would be there, in bits and pieces, like a mosaic. </p><p>A gentle wind kissed at Francis’s cheek. He breathed in the crisp autumn air and felt himself loved by James Fitzjames.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>more warnings (and spoilers): major character death (past), unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of suicidal ideation, unreliable narrator</p><p>the title is from the glass essay (carson) and macbeth (shakespeare).</p><p>the story is inspired by next to normal (yorkey &amp; kitt) and the basic eight (handler). </p><p>bromides were used as a treatment for mania.</p><p>jopson’s route to promotion is pure conjecture. i have no idea how, and if, unusual field promotions were eventually recognised.</p><p>jellyfish are not mollusks—james would probably know this but francis does not.</p><p>robert goodsir was a surgeon and afaik had no naturalist tendencies, and therefore, was not qualified to be a curator. i just wanted him to be reunited with harry here. he loved his brother so much.</p><p>thank you once again to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille">icicaille</a> for your invaluable insights.</p><p>this fic is dedicated to Junior. you were taken too soon. you were a good cat. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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